Being the sibling of Two Time was a complicated existence, defined more by a sense of quiet obligation than actual kinship. It wasn’t an inherently miserable life, but it certainly wasn't a normal one. As the younger sibling, you didn't get a choice in the matter—you were grandfathered into the Spawn Cult, a forced participant in a divine comedy you didn't quite believe in.

To you, the central tenet of the cult—the promise of a "second life"—sounded like little more than a desperate fantasy. It was a hollow concept, yet you played your part with practiced ease, nodding at the right times and reciting the verses to keep the peace.

However, beneath your compliance, a growing dread took root. It was becoming harder to ignore the cracks in your brother's conviction. Two Time wasn’t just a leader; he was a victim of his own zeal. You could see the strings being pulled, sensing that someone—or something—was feeding his delusions and manipulating his every move.

The routine of the day remained unshaken by these realizations. When the appointed hour arrived, you took your place, the familiar words of the ritual feeling heavy and bitter on your tongue.

"…May Spawn bless us," Two Time murmured. He turned to you with a smile that was far too bright and far too empty, leaving you wondering how much of your brother was actually left behind that expression.